


Blood Stains and Baking Soda

by cleromancy



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Domestic, M/M, Pre-Reboot, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 16:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1557113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleromancy/pseuds/cleromancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The sniff test? <i>Really,</i> Jason?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood Stains and Baking Soda

**Author's Note:**

> Prereboot fluff. For shelley! huge thanks to everyone who read this over for me.

They’re walking down to Gotham Cleaners, a laundry joint a few blocks away from Jason's apartment. That morning, Tim caught Jason with his nose pressed into a ratty old cotton shirt; when Jason asked for a second opinion on the wearability of said shirt, Tim had stared, horrified, and announced they were going to the laundromat.

Jason’s indulging him with a minimal amount of protesting—he’s been meaning to check on old Mrs. Fitzgerald at GC anyway—although he might have put up more of a fuss if he'd known that on the walk down, Tim still wouldn't be over Jason’s _very reasonable_ laundry habits. Tim's had this pinched expression on his face the whole way, with intermittent incredulous head-shaking.

"The sniff test?" Tim says again. " _Really,_ Jason?” 

“How else are you supposed to know what’s clean and what’s not?” Jason says, sensibly.

“For most people, by whether it’s in the closet or the hamper.”

“Why would I put clothes in the closet? That’s what the floor’s for.”

“Slob,” Tim says. One corner of his mouth is twitching up.

Jason rolls his eyes. He’s smiling, too. “I keep the apartment free of mold and roaches, Tim.” Mostly. “I don't know what more you want from me.”

The apartment was run-down even when Jason moved in. There’s not much of a point to getting it squeaky clean; it’s still gonna be a shithole even if the floor is vacuumed. Why bother?

Tim, apparently, doesn't agree. “Free of mold and roaches is a start,” he says, unimpressed.

“Yeah, yeah," says Jason. "Don’t get your ridiculous hygiene expectations all over my apartment, Timmy-boy.”

Tim shakes his head in mock-disappointment. He’s failing even worse at hiding his smile, now.

Jason grins back, knocking their shoulders together.

Lately Tim’s been stealth cleaning. Stacks of dirty dishes vanish mysteriously off the coffee table; Jason’s fridge is suspiciously bereft of expired dairy. It’s just another way Tim’s been making his presence felt. In the bathroom, his toothbrush has found a permanent home next to Jason’s, and Jason’s closet is slowly filling up with Tim’s clothes. Tim still steals Jason’s shirts to sleep in, though, and Jason hasn’t woken up alone in weeks.

And now Tim’s turned his attention to Jason’s laundry. After catching Jason in crimes against cleanliness, Tim produced a couple mesh bags and stuffed them with the dirty clothes strewn around the apartment. He stripped the sheets off the bed too, because “when was the last time you washed these, Jason? Have you ever? In the entire time we’ve been sleeping together?”

The laundry bags are at least as big as Tim is, so Jason takes them. Tim protests when Jason tosses them over his shoulder, but when Jason points out that it’s _his_ laundry, Tim mostly settles down.

Jason makes Tim carry his fancy hypoallergenic laundry soap himself, though.

When they reach the cleaner's, Jason pushes open the door and, putting the bags down inside, holds it open for Tim. Tim smirks at Jason, because he knows Jason's not doing it out of politeness so much as to watch Tim's ass when he passes. Jason's predictable like that.

Distracted as Jason is, it’s Mrs. Fitzgerald who spots him first. 

“Well, if it isn’t Darcy Jones!” 

Jason’s head snaps up. Mrs. Fitzgerald's limping over, leaning heavily on her cane. Jason automatically straightens up, clasping his hands behind his back. 

“What’s cookin’, good lookin’?” he says, leaning in to kiss her soft, powdery cheek. 

“Darcy Jones," she repeats, shaking her head with a gummy smile as she pats him fondly on the shoulder. "Scamp. It's been so long since you've stopped by. Good to see you haven't forgotten about an old lady after all.” 

Behind her at the wall of dryers, Tim raises his eyebrows at Jason. _Darcy?_ he mouths, a smirk twitching around the corner of his mouth. 

Jason shoots him a glare over Mrs. Fitzgerald’s shoulder. It's not like Tim has any room to judge.

Mrs. Fitzgerald holds Jason at arms length and looks him over from head to toe. She clucks, disapproving. 

“You’re not eating properly," she says. "How will you protect my shop if you waste away to nothing?”

“I eat _fine_ ,” Jason says. He glances over her shoulder at Tim, who’s leaning against the dryers, smirking like the cat that got the cream.

Mrs. Fitzgerald purses her lips and _hmphs_ s. “Casserole," she says. "Bacon and broccoli casserole. You’ll take it home, young man, and you will eat it. You need food.” 

“I—” Jason starts before realizing he’s about to protest free food. “Yes ma’am.” 

Mrs. Fitzgerald nods. “Now, you just wait here, watch my shop while I am away. And when you're done with your laundry you will take it home and you better take care of yourself. You hear me, Darcy Jones? Take care of yourself like you take care of old ladies.” 

Tim is still smirking at him. Loudly. Jason narrows his eyes. The little shit is lucky Mrs. Fitzgerald is pinning Jason in place with her beady-eyed stare, or Jason’d be giving him a hell of a noogie right now. 

“Yes ma’am,” Jason says instead. “Thank you, ma’am.” 

Mrs. Fitzgerald squints at him for a moment longer, before nodding. She taps her cane on the ground to reiterate her point once more, then turns on her heel to make her slow, plodding way to the back room of the shop. At the doorway, she stops, keys jangling in her trembly hands. She turns over her shoulder, looking Jason straight in the eye.

“And come by and visit me more often, y'hear?” she says, and disappears through the door. 

As soon as she’s out of sight, Jason slumps, letting out a long, relieved breath. There's a snicker from across the room, and Jason looks up to see Tim still watching him. 

"What're you looking at," says Jason, as if he didn't know.

Tim shakes his head. “C’mere and help me sort your laundry, Darcy.” 

“Shut up," says Jason. "Alvin."

Jason plonks down across from Tim on the other side of the massive laundry pile. "We don't gotta sort it, y’know. Let’s Just toss it all in on cold and we can call it a day.” 

The look that Tim gives Jason could peel paint.

"It's _my_ laundry," Jason protests. 

Tim doesn’t bat an eyelash, the dirty look only intensifying. Jason manages to hold Tim's steely gaze for a long moment, forcing himself not to shift from foot to foot. Finally he grunts, throwing up his arms.

“Have it your way,” Jason says, tossing a sock along with the whites.

He sets into helping Tim sort the laundry, although he can’t resist trying to sneak darks into the white pile in front of Tim. No one could blame him—Tim always makes this scrunched face when Jason pesters him.

After a moment, Tim speaks. “The woman who works here—”

“Mrs. Fitzgerald,” Jason says absently. 

“She seems to like you,” says Tim.

“I’m likable,” says Jason. “Very likable. Lovable, some would say.” 

Tim raises his eyebrows. 

“Aaaand it helps that I run off dirtbags who try and bust her machines,” Jason admits. 

“Saving little old ladies, Jason?” Tim shakes his head. “You’re going to ruin your reputation.” 

“My _reputation._ ”

“That whole badass, leather jacket aesthetic you have going.” 

“Saving old ladies is badass,” says Jason. He didn’t do it in a leather jacket—it was boxers and a tank top, since the rest of his clothes were dirty—but Tim doesn’t need to know that. 

“More ‘boy scout’ than ‘bad boy,’” says Tim.

“It—no,” says Jason. “No, you’ve got—that’s not how I’m—no. Shut up.” 

He throws a pair of boxers into Tim’s face. Tim ducks, but doesn’t entirely miss getting biffed in the face. He falls back a bit into the pile of darks. Jason tosses another shirt at him, except Tim catches this one. 

“There,” says Jason. “How’s that for boy scout.” 

Tim pushes himself up out of the pile, straightening it as he goes. “Yeah, throwing underwear in my face is totally badass. You sure showed me.” 

“Damn right,” says Jason. 

Tim rolls his eyes. Jason grins down at the dirty clothes. 

Between the two of them, the rest of the sorting goes quicker than Jason expected. Tim fiddles with the washer settings, directing Jason which piles go in which machine. When all the clothes are finally loaded up, Jason sighs exaggeratedly, slumping onto the washer next to Tim, forehead pressing against the steel. 

"Don't die," says Tim.

"Been there, done that." 

"Never perform the same trick twice," agrees Tim, carding his cool slim fingers through Jason's curls. 

For a moment, Jason closes his eyes and relishes the sensation. Then Tim's hand is gone, and Tim has gone rigid behind him. Adrenaline spikes in Jason’s gut, and then the _thunk-click_ of Mrs. Fitzgerald's walk registers. Relaxing, Jason pushes himself up off the washer to see her making her careful way over, a casserole dish in her hand.

Jason's mouth waters. He trots over to her and tries to reach under the Cling Wrap to pick at the bacon trimming. Mrs. Fitzgerald slaps his hand. 

"Heat it first,” she says sternly. “Don’t you dare eat it cold. I’ll know." 

"It smells amazing," says Jason, trying again to sneak a piece of bacon off of the top. 

"It’ll suffice," says Mrs. Fitzgerald, moving the dish out of Jason's reach, setting it down on a table behind her. 

A clangs rings out, and Jason and Mrs. Fitzgerald both look up. Tim’s hovering by the dryers, tense and hunched. Apparently the noise was accidental. Jason grins. 

“And who is this?” says Mrs. Fitzgerald, giving Tim a calculating once-over that makes him freeze in place. 

“Alvin Draper,” says Tim. “Ma’am.” 

"Hm," says Mrs. Fitzgerald. 

"Nice to meet you," says Tim, smiling wanly. 

"Hm," says Mrs. Fitzgerald. 

She turns to Jason. "Darcy," she says. "I need your young arms. Mine aren’t so good for lifting these days."

Flexing, Jason leans in and kisses his bicep. “You won my heart with meatloaf,” he declares. “I’ll do anything you want.” 

“Darcy Jones, you _are_ meatloaf,” she says fondly, and sets her cane down so she can hook her arm through Jason’s as they walk. 

There are only a few boxes, overflowing with files and paperwork, and it’s a matter of minutes for Jason to pick them and stack them neatly out of the way. 

Smacking his hands together in satisfaction, Jason says, “All done,” but Mrs. Fitzgerald doesn't answer. Jason turns to see her watching Tim through the slit in the door with hawk-like sharpness. 

Jason pauses. “Ma’am?” 

Turning to Jason, Mrs. Fitzgerald furrows her eyebrows. She puts her small, wrinkled hand on Jason’s arm.

“Are you quite sure about your young man?” she asks in an undertone. "He's awfully quiet."

Laughter bubbles up in Jason’s throat. _My young man,_ he thinks, looking across at Tim moving damp clothes from washer to dryer. Tim pauses to search out the tag on a t-shirt, presumably for washing instructions, and fondness warms Jason down to his toes. 

"Yeah,” Jason says, smiling. “Yeah, I am." 

Tim keeps loading the dryers as if he hasn't heard, but the tips of his ears have gone red. Jason ducks his head, his smile widening.

After repeated assurances that "Alvin" is, in fact, trustworthy, Mrs. Fitzgerald decides to tuck Tim under her wing along with Jason. She extracts promises from them both that they’ll eat well and get enough sleep. As far as mothering goes, the old woman could give Alfred a run for his money. Just as they leave, she tells Tim to be sure to take good care of Jason. Jason would protest, except Tim’s making a face like a cat with its ears back, and Jason has to focus his energy on not laughing out loud. 

The walk back, Jason carries the laundry bags over one shoulder again, and his free arm dangles close to Tim's. Their hands keep bumping, so for convenience, Jason holds Tim’s the rest of the way home.


End file.
